


Terra Firma

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John has a cold, M/M, No angst zone, Pre-Slash, Sherlock's Voice, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt, sherlock is kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: John has a cold, and Sherlock's got such a lovely voice.





	Terra Firma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CountryDogLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountryDogLover/gifts).



> This is for thewhippedcreamhand over on Tumblr who gifted me with this amazing prompt! (I'll put the actual prompt in the notes at the end). I hope I did her idea justice! Some quotes are taken from [this excerpt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eY9pXHWYyM) from BBC's _South Pacific_.
> 
> This is unbeta-ed, so the mistakes might be embarrassing.

Terra Firma

At seven, John wakes up with a slight headache, a dull pressure behind his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, curses allergy season, takes some ibuprofen, and gets on with it. His sinuses start to sting by nine o’clock, and by ten, he can feel the burn move all the way down the left side of his throat from the drainage. Stupid allergies. The forecast has rain this afternoon, so it should all clear up soon, he tells himself. He resolutely ignores the little voice in the back of his head reminding him that he doesn’t have allergies.

After a witness interview, they stop at a café for hot drinks and to hopefully let the rain pass. John tries, really _tries_ , to focus as Sherlock talks through their case, but the noise of the restaurant won’t let him. Sherlock’s voice comes in and out like waves on the sea, muffled and amplified in turns with the too-loud order for a panini (no, the ham, the _ham one_ ), a screaming toddler, and the squeal of chairs sliding against tile flooring.

Sherlock looks at him, not talking now. Has he solved it? Or maybe they are meant to go to the library, or something about concrete scrapings? John blinks and tries to clear the goo from the back of his throat. That _hurt_. He does it again.

“Are you even listening?”

“What?” John asks, forcing his attention back to Sherlock. It takes a moment for it to settle; everything feels blurry and dull.  His thoughts are sloshing around inside his throbbing skull. He sniffs.

“Johnston’s back garden path,” Sherlock says, prompting.

John doesn’t have the faintest idea what he’s on about. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know, Sherlock,” John says. He sneezes, which knocks something around deep inside his chest, and he can’t stifle the cough that comes. Damn it _.  Damn it_.

“You’re ill.” Sherlock says. It’s not a question.

“It’s just allergies,” John says, voice like wet gravel. He takes a sip of his tea, and the warmth smooths over some of the jagged edges a bit. He hums with pleasure, but that _hurts_ , so he takes another sip before he starts coughing again.

“You don’t have allergies,” Sherlock replies, sipping from his own cup with brows raised.

“I could,” John says. “I could have allergies.” He almost gets away with the statement before he’s coughing again, wet and barking.

“You don’t. You’re ill. Shall we go home?”

“We’ve got a case on.”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “It’s hardly even a seven.” 

John tries to protest again, but he can only sniff around the blob of snot that has suddenly decided to escape his right nostril. He catches it with a serviette. Jesus. _Gross_.

Sherlock’s eyes soften. “You are useless to me like this. Lestrade can handle this one from here; we’ve already done most of the work for him. I’m bored of it already.”  He’s got his phone out as he speaks, texting quickly. He thumbs the button to darken it before pocketing it with a small flourish.

Once John’s admitted defeat, it all goes downhill very quickly from there.  He feels _rotten_.

On the walk home, it starts raining again, and he feels like he’s soaked though, inside and out. Sherlock quickly faffs off in another direction just as John turns toward the Superdrug. Blinking water from his eyes, John starts to call after him but is thwarted by his damn cough. Whatever. John can’t be bothered. So, he makes his way inside alone, gets enough Lemsip to down a horse, and splurges on the good tissues—the thick ones with the moisture balm in. He gets the double pack, two hundred two-ply white flags of surrender to this damn cold.

Sherlock is not at the flat when he arrives, and he’s almost glad since he is wheezing like an old man when he reaches the top of the stairs, soggy and miserable. He feels like he’s moving under water, slogging through an ocean of snot. He might need to call Dr Howe at the surgery for something stronger than Lemsip, but the thought of all that effort only exhausts him further. For now, he only wants comfortable pajama bottoms and rest.

He bungs the Superdrug sack on the coffee table and makes it as far as the sofa. He needs to rest a moment before tackling another flight of stairs. Just for a moment. He just needs to rest his eyes. For just one moment.

\---

He wakes to Sherlock’s hand, a solid warmth on his shoulder. He coughs; it’s worse than before. John slowly shifts to sitting, unable to stop a miserable groan as every muscle in his body protests. Sherlock sits beside him, perching stiffly at the sofa’s edge.

“Here,” he says, handing John a glass of water and dose of the Lemsip capsules he’d left unopened on the coffee table before. John swallows them with a painful grimace, throat screaming at him for the effort.

Then, Sherlock is handing him a mug of something steaming. “Bone broth,” Sherlock explains. “It’s supposed to help.”

John sniffs at it. He’s dubious, but takes a sip anyway. It’s not what he expected; it’s smooth and rich, like silk, coating the entire inside of his throat. “It’s good,” he says, but his voice is gone even weaker now; patchy and raw. He sips again.

“They’ve just opened a shop that specialises in it two roads up.”

So, that’s where he’d gone off to. John finds himself blinking at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness, and his gooey chest warms a bit.

“I’ve got the kettle on for tea as well,” he says, pointing to the kitchen before he goes in.

“Thanks,” John says, and he means it. He manages one more sip before he has to set it down, coughing again, his entire body convulsing with it, and he _hates this_.  Once he catches his breath, he shifts, squirming and uncomfortable. His clothes are damp and _touching him._ The seams of his trousers cut into his skin, fabric pulling tight at his knees when he tries to move, but he doesn’t want to climb the stairs. “I don’t want to climb the stairs,” he mutters, breathless, to the ceiling, as he flops back into the sofa once more.  The movement sloshes about the liquid in his head unpleasantly. He can’t breathe through his nose like this. Is it possible to drown in one’s own snot?  He’s a doctor, he thinks, as he lets his eyes close again.  At one point, he probably knew the answer to that question.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice wakes him again.

“Hm,” John says.

“I got you these from your room,” Sherlock says, pressing his favourite pajama bottoms and tee shirt into his chest. “I’ll help you up the stairs if you want, but I thought you might want to stay here.”  He looks oddly sheepish, like a child who's not sure if he’s done the right thing or not. John also notices that his pillow and duvet have been placed at the other end of the sofa.

John smiles and thanks him, grateful and exhausted, and Sherlock’s shoulders relax. John tugs at his jumper, pulling it over his head by the back of the collar, letting it fall the ground near his feet. Next, he does his button down and swaps it for the tee shirt. Okay. Halfway there. He stands to undo his trousers but doesn’t get far because he forgot about his boots, and now—he’s stuck. Possibly forever. He’s sweating. He sits back down to gather his energy.

Sherlock laughs at him.

“Shut up,” he says, lungs burning as he tries to fill them. He gets a sharp pain in the sinus just behind the corner of his left eye, so he presses into it with two fingers. It doesn’t help much.

“Just be glad I’m not taking photos.”

John coughs, doubling forward. Sherlock is at his side instantly, hand hovering just over his chest but not touching, all humour evaporated. And, with more gentleness than John thought possible of him, he lifts John’s left foot where it’s trapped in the tangle of his trousers and boots. Sherlock lifts the soaked fabric as best he can so he can undo the boot laces, sliding it off first, and then the trouser leg, and then his sock.  His fingers brush the top arch of his foot, and John shivers a bit at it—but it’s nice, soothing. John drops his foot to the floor with a soft thump and Sherlock taps his other leg at the calf—a silent instruction. John lifts that one, and Sherlock repeats the steps down to the caress of his foot, this time a thumb smoothing over the length of his big toe.  “’S’nice,” John mutters, and he realises that he’s closed his eyes again. 

Sherlock hands him his pajama bottoms and stands, gathering John’s clothes as he goes.  John puts them on, grabs his pillow and duvet from the far end and then sinks into the sofa properly, finding just the right angle for his head so he can breathe through at least one nostril.

\---

It’s dark outside when he wakes.  The lounge is dimly lit with only a couple of lamps. Sherlock is sitting sideways in his chair, facing him with legs dangling over the arm as he reads something on his phone. 

“There’s more broth if you want,” Sherlock says.  “Or tea. You should probably take some more medicine, too.” He shifts, readying to move, but John holds out a hand.  His medicine has indeed worn off, and he coughs and coughs, shaking his head. 

“Don’t get up. I need the loo anyway.  You don’t have to wait on me, Sherlock. I’m a big boy, and I’ve survived a cold or two before.”

Sherlock’s mouth presses into a line.  “I know that.”

John doesn’t really know what to say next, so he musters up a small smile and holds Sherlock’s eyes until he returns it. He really does need the loo though, so he nods once, heaves himself from the sofa, and goes.

After the labour of taking more Lemsip and making a cup of tea, John is knackered once again by the time he settles back in his spot on the sofa.  He closes his eyes again, but sleep won’t come. 

“Mind if I turn on the telly?” he asks.

“No,” Sherlock says, and he lifts the remote from the table next to John’s chair and carries it over to him. 

John sits, adjusting his pillow behind him a bit, and aims the remote at the television.  The sound is far too loud when it switches on—news at top volume.  John quickly hits mute.  He can fiddle with the volume once he figures out what he wants. He flips to another channel. Soap opera.  No.  Flip.  _Top Gear_.  No.  Flip.  Some sort of nature documentary.  This will do.  This will do nicely. He watches a penguin swim under water as though it’s flying.  He turns the volume back on and settles in.  No narration yet, just the sounds of wildlife and water and soft music.

“Penguins?” Sherlock asks.

“They’re cute,” John replies with a shrug.  But also, this is the kind of plotless thing he doesn’t have to focus too much on; he doesn’t need to give it his full attention. If he sleeps, he sleeps, and all the better if he does.  Sherlock sits next to him, crisscrossing his legs, sitting as though he’s on the ground. His attention is back on his phone.  John sips from his mug, feeling—not better, but more content anyway.  He sniffs. And coughs. He has to hold a tissue to his nose to catch snot before it drips down his face.

The scene shifts, the music intensifies, and the narration starts.  And good lord, it is the worst sound he has ever heard!  “Gah!” he can’t help but shout, scrambling in the folds of the duvet for the remote.  “Make that stop!”

“What?” Sherlock asks just as John finds the mute button again.

“That’s no good at all,” John explains, frowning. “Did they find the most nasally-voiced man in the world on purpose?”

Sherlock makes a sound of agreement.  “Probably specifically to annoy you,” he says, but the sarcasm is soft, and Sherlock’s eyes are smiling at him in earnest.

John shifts his pillow down a bit lower, rearranges the placement of his backside, unable to get comfortable. He turns on the closed captions but leaves the thing going.  It’s better, but the reading is making him tired.

“Reading is hard,” he says, filterless.

Sherlock lifts his head from his phone again and squints his eyes at the television, just a bit.  “ _It looks desolate but it’s not deserted_ ,” he reads.  “ _At certain times of year, there’s more life here than on any other island in the Pacific_.”

John turns to look at him. Is Sherlock actually reading to him?  He raises an eyebrow.  Sherlock shrugs.  There is a pause in the captions, and John wishes he could hear the music, but he takes the moment to once again try to get more comfortable.

Sherlock continues, “ _One month later, another wave of migrants appear in the surf.”_   He pauses to let the captions start again. “ _These are royal penguins, and they are about to have their first sighting of land in seven months_.” Sherlock’s narration is exactly the right tone, almost melodic, and John finds himself drifting a bit, but pleasantly so.   

“You’re pretty good at this, you know,” he says, stretching out his leg, resting his foot on Sherlock’s thigh. He didn’t mean to do that, and he considers pulling it back, but Sherlock’s hand comes to light there, holding him steady.

“ _One last hurdle, and they’re back on terra firma_ ,” Sherlock says, voice deep and lovely and sweet.  John watches as thousands of penguins leap from the sea onto land like they’re coming home to the place they’ve always belonged.  Sherlock’s voice _is_ perfect for this.

As Sherlock continues reading, his thumb brushes over the jut of John’s ankle, and John’s head falls slowly back against his pillow. His medicine must be kicking in because his head feels light like floating, and though his chest crackles a bit when he breathes, he doesn’t cough. This—is nice.

“ _This island is actually the only solid ground these penguins will ever set foot on._ ”

Sherlock’s warm fingers wrap around his ankle fully, and John sighs.  His eyes feel heavy.

“Go to sleep, John,” he hears Sherlock say, and he nods. That sounds lovely.

Sherlock shifts a bit, and John thinks he might be moving away. “Stay, Sherlock,” he says, stretching his other leg out with his first one, letting both his feet rest in Sherlock’s lap, sinking a little more deeply into the sofa.

“I will, John,” Sherlock says, voice like a song, and John drifts, content in the warmth surrounding him, Sherlock’s hands stroking his feet, and the quiet patter of rain against window outside. 

Terra firma, indeed.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thewhippedcreamhand said: "I was inspired by Benedict Cumberbatch narrating Wild Pacific. John is sick, has a cold or something and he likes to watch nature documentaries when he's sick, but the particular narrator's voice is irritating, so he is watching on mute with captions (which he probably can't read because of sickness/medicine). Enter Sherlock and THAT VOICE which we all know was made for narrating and soothing souls."


End file.
